


Sweet

by qwanderer



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Penis (Good Omens), Aziraphale can't decide on an Effort, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Other, Post-Scene: The Ritz (Good Omens), anyway YEARNING, but eventually, genders are for mortals, if there is such a thing, slow burn pwp
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-26
Updated: 2020-07-26
Packaged: 2021-03-06 01:15:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25534951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/qwanderer/pseuds/qwanderer
Summary: Crowley traces tiny circles on the tablecloth with his finger. Aziraphale's pupils dilate as he watches. Before, he would have looked away.They have scripts and games. They've been known to tease each other. The teasing was never going to lead to anything.The fact that it could, today, now, is terrifying.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 19
Kudos: 303
Collections: Top Aziraphale Recs





	Sweet

**Author's Note:**

> This was partially inspired by the Sarah McLachlan song, Do What You Have To Do. The lyrics sound different when applied to the ineffable husbands.

  
  
  


They've wanted each other for six thousand years.

Every moment of that time has been predestined, prescribed. They have scripts and games. Now they're free and they don't know the rules.

The rules kept them from what they wanted, but the rules were comfortable. Safe.

They don't touch, except in the course of business. A handshake to seal a facet of the arrangement. Hands clasped to say hello, or goodbye. 

Things changed, yesterday. Aziraphale was the brave one, and sat down in the next seat over when they got on the bus. Aziraphale offered his hand.

Aziraphale has always been so brave. 

Crowley couldn't do anything except take the offered hand. He could do this. They had clasped hands before.

They hadn't  _ held hands_. Not like this.

Aziraphale’s hand was warm in his, as he remembered, as he knew it would be, but now he had the chance to feel the texture of the angel’s calluses, the rhythm of his pulse, and feel the warm bulk of the angel’s body next to his. Shoulders brushing, arms resting against each other, thighs pressed together. Aziraphale was so close, and Crowley couldn’t breathe with how  _ much _ it all was.

Crowley held on tight and hoped against hope that they wouldn’t lose each other before they got the chance to do anything more.

Tonight, well. Tonight they toast the survival of the world and contemplate the fact that they have all the time in it.

They know what they want.

In the abstract.

Crowley traces tiny circles on the tablecloth with his finger. Aziraphale's pupils dilate as he watches. Before, he would have looked away.

They have scripts and games. They've been known to tease each other. The teasing was never going to lead to anything.

The fact that it could, today, now, is terrifying.

Crowley takes a shaky breath, and decides he isn’t ready to be brave yet. “Another dessert?” he asks. 

Aziraphale’s mouth quirks up at the corners, and he asks, “Anything in particular you’re in the mood for?” His eyes sparkle. They always sparkle when he asks those things. He knows the real answer.

Crowley is in the mood for Aziraphale’s mouth. Aziraphale’s mouth on his, for preference, but what he always settles for is watching it, watching Aziraphale eat, watching Aziraphale drink, watching Aziraphale talk. He’s utterly addicted. 

He’s taking longer to answer than he ordinarily would, caught up in the thoughts he never lets himself indulge in. Aziraphale’s lips are slightly pursed now, as if the angel’s not sure whether he should find humor in their predicament, or be concerned. 

“Something that goes with the champagne,” Crowley answers at last. “Don’t want to switch to a sweet wine, yet.”

Crowley doesn’t do sweet alcohol, not around Aziraphale, not anymore. The closest they’ve ever gotten to slipping up was once, when they’d gotten utterly smashed on ice wine and Crowley kept licking the sweet, heady stuff off his lips and thinking of how it would taste licked off the angel’s.

He’d not meant to speak the thoughts aloud.

Aziraphale hums, reddening slightly. He must remember that night as well. The words spoken. He clears his throat. “The raspberry soufflé,” he decides. 

Crowley snaps his fingers to summon a waiter, and considers ordering himself a coffee or something, but he’s already plenty on edge. He picks up his champagne flute and twirls the stem between his fingers, watching the bubbles swirl as they rise. Once the waiter has left to retrieve the soufflé, he glances at Aziraphale out of the corner of his eyes. 

Aziraphale is looking back at him, in the same small, furtive way. Lips curled up at the corners in a private smile, one Crowley has never seen in public before. 

Right now, just looking at each other feels like getting away with something. 

Crowley smiles back, the same way. Then tries to hide the way the smile wants to grow to take over his whole face by taking a sip of champagne.

Aziraphale takes a slightly ragged breath, and places his hand on the table, not quite reaching for Crowley but close enough to touch, close enough to communicate the angel’s thoughts.

Crowley stares at it for a moment, transfixed. There are so many ways he wants to touch Aziraphale, even just Aziraphale’s hands. Crowley is a bit overwhelmed with the possibilities. It’s a good thing they are out in the open, or there would be infinitely more options. But here, now - he could lay his hand over the angel’s, he could stroke Aziraphale’s knuckles with his fingertips, he could pick up that hand and clasp it, could even pull it to his lips and kiss those sweet fingers softly. 

Too much, too much. And not enough. Something small, he thinks, but with the promise of more. 

He runs one fingertip up the side of Aziraphale’s middle finger, just where it lays against the table, slowly, up past one knuckle, then the other, stopping short of the webbing where fingers meet hand. Holding there for a moment, then sliding back down to the corner of the perfectly manicured nail. 

Aziraphale shudders visibly, and his fingers stretch out straighter, just to be a hair’s breadth closer to Crowley. To brush against Crowley’s fingertip still resting against his, return a tiny part of the caress.

When the ramekin is brought to the table, they snatch their hands back, not guiltily, exactly, but out of long, careful habit. Aziraphale thanks the waiter automatically and picks up his spoon, and takes a couple of breaths before he seems able to truly register what’s been set in front of him. 

“Oh,” he says quietly when it manages to hold his attention. “This does look lovely.” 

It’s an earthy pink on the sides, and golden with a dusting of powdered sugar and three plump raspberries on the top. Aziraphale contemplates it a moment longer before plunging his spoon into the delicate pudding. 

Crowley holds his breath as Aziraphale brings the spoon to his mouth, and tastes. 

“Mmh,” Aziraphale says appreciatively, closing his eyes for a long moment. Then he smiles. “Yes, it’s just marvelous. Flavorful, but not too tart.” He turns to Crowley, a weight to his gaze as he asks, “Will you have a bite?”

“Yes,” says Crowley, with too much emotion in his voice for just a question about a spoonful of raspberry soufflé.

Aziraphale’s eyes widen a little. Crowley never says yes to this offer. Rarely touches dessert. It’s no wonder the angel is taken aback, and for a moment Crowley wonders if he even truly wanted to share his perfect little morsel. But then Aziraphale beams, wiggling just a bit, and turns his attention to scooping up a second spoonful. 

He’s still grinning when he turns to Crowley again, but there’s a weight to the way he offers the spoon, laden with fluffy pink sweetness. He doesn’t offer it handle first, the way he once might have, and doesn’t stop when the spoon comes within easy reach. Instead, he leans into Crowley’s space, holding the spoon close enough for Crowley to lean in slightly and take it in his mouth. 

Crowley reaches up and cups Aziraphale’s hand in his own, fingertips grazing the soft skin of the angel’s wrist. He brings his mouth to the spoon, and, with a motion of his mouth that owes something to his snakelike tongue, pulls the soft pink morsel into his mouth. 

Aziraphale swallows loudly, watching him hungrily. That look is better than the dessert, but the dessert is good, sweet and robust in flavor, meltingly soft in texture.

“Mmm,” Crowley agrees, releasing Aziraphale’s hand with a twinge of regret. “Good choice, that was.”

“I’m finding myself,” says Aziraphale, breathily, “not sure whether it’s really worth staying to finish it.” And he turns those eyes on Crowley, the ones he can never resist. Bright and pale blue and pleading.

Crowley closes his eyes. Aziraphale, always the brave one.

“I don’t…” says Aziraphale, and then he takes a breath and begins again. “Will you come to the shop? Just. Just to talk. Without the eyes of the world on us.”

“‘Course I will,” Crowley answers immediately. He can’t deny Aziraphale anything.

He doesn’t want to. It’s just… old habits. Old scripts. 

It’s been six thousand years. It might take some time to figure out how to say  _ yes. _

They settle up, and Crowley saunters out. As Aziraphale falls into step beside him, the angel reaches for his hand. 

Crowley takes it. Of course he takes it. At first it’s hard to breathe, it’s still so new, but. He dares to imagine a world in which he might apply the word  _ usually _ to the angel’s hand and his, clasped together.

The thought feels like flying.

New scripts, Crowley decides as the solid heat of Aziraphale’s hand permeates his own, are incredible to write. 

They walk in silence for a minute, letting the noise of the London streets wash over them. Crowley thinks of going back to the bookshop, sitting opposite each other as they always have, talking and drinking. It aches deep in his belly, the thought of keeping apart like that. But then again, it always has.

He thinks of the alternative, the amorphous future, full of the potential for things that have always meant danger to them. Terrifying, yes. 

Too sweet to resist. 

Determined, Crowley rubs the length of Aziraphale’s thumb with his own, up, then down again. He gets a squeeze in return, and the feel of Aziraphale’s thumb brushing over the knuckles of his index finger. He feels like that last glass of champagne, full of rising bubbles trying to escape. 

“So,” Crowley says, trying to make at least a bit of a plan, so he doesn’t fly apart thinking of all the different ways things could go. “What’ve you got in the shop that’s sweet?”

Aziraphale looks at Crowley edgewise, just a glance, as he continues to face ahead. “How long has it been since we’ve shared a bottle of passito wine?” he asks.

Crowley thinks of it, of the flavors, wine with the taste of plump raisins dried in the sun, deep and rich, like drinking the sweetest parts of a long warm autumn all rolled up into one moment.

“Long enough that it was still called  _ passum,” _ Crowley answers. “Might have been BC.”

“I’ve been saving one,” Aziraphale says, with a kind of quiet intent that tells Crowley exactly what he’s been saving it for. The impossible. The day they belong only to each other.

Today.

“Yeah,” says Crowley. “Sounds perfect.” He bumps his shoulder against Aziraphale’s, feeling at least a bit brave. 

When Aziraphale locks the door of the bookshop behind them, shutting out the world, and they look at each other, everything stops. It’s as if the whole world is holding its breath, just waiting for them. 

Crowley hasn’t got a thought in his head, except for how beautiful Aziraphale looks right now, happy, exhilarated, slightly flushed. It doesn’t even occur to him to do anything about it, so he just stares. 

Aziraphale clears his throat. “Well,” he says, “I’ll go and get that passito, shall I?” He shrugs out of his jacket, hanging it in its usual place, and turns to leave.

“Right,” Crowley agrees, and goes to put on a record. He takes his time choosing, ending up with something by Vivaldi. He leaves the volume low. He’s still standing there when Aziraphale comes back with the wine, and two glasses. 

"Ah," says the angel, setting down his burden on a nearby table. "Thank you, my dear. I wouldn't have thought of music, but it's just the thing."

They often have music, when they sit down for a drink here. Aziraphale isn't treating this like just another day with him in the shop. Another confirmation that today is going to be different. Aziraphale hums along with the Vivaldi, and he's glowing. Not literally, but. He's exuding joy. Crowley wants to see more of that.

Suddenly it seems silly for Crowley to be wearing his dark glasses, still. He doesn't always, not here, especially if he's been drinking, which they have been. He takes them off and tucks them inside his jacket.

Even with the music, the pop of the cork is loud against the stillness of the shop. 

Aziraphale pours one glass, then the second, and then he turns back to Crowley, glass in hand. When he meets Crowley's bare gaze, he brightens even more. It shouldn't be possible, but Aziraphale manages.

The way Aziraphale moves through his shop is different than the way he moves anywhere else, and it's almost like dancing. He moves towards Crowley, slowing as he approaches, and Crowley watches, sure with every step that Aziraphale is going to stop there, leave a proper distance between them as he always does. 

Aziraphale keeps moving, closer than he has to, to hand Crowley his glass. Right into his space. Still beaming. Still radiantly beautiful.

Crowley knows he has to show how much he wants this, take the next step. So he lets their fingers brush as he takes the glass - specifically, he lets one of his fingertips brush up against the side of Aziraphale's middle finger, the same soft stretch of skin he'd traced when Aziraphale laid his hand on the table at the Ritz. 

Aziraphale shivers, and Crowley smirks and takes a sip. 

The wine is as sweet and rich as he remembers, and it's strong, and the slight burn of it against his tongue lights something in him that sets his whole body to tingling. 

Or maybe it’s just Aziraphale.

Aziraphale is still standing close, gazing at Crowley intently, his own glass forgotten next to the bottle on the table. Crowley offers the glass in his hand to Aziraphale. 

"It's incredible," Crowley tells him. "Thanks for picking it. Here, have a taste." He brings the glass almost to Aziraphale's lips before the angel seems to register what's happening and covers Crowley's hand with his own in order to bring the glass the rest of the way to his mouth. 

Crowley is transfixed, watching the angel’s hand curled around his own hand on the glass, watching the angel’s lips as they change shape in preparation for meeting the glass, watching their softness as the edge of the glass presses into them. The sweet golden liquid touches them. It’s no different from what he’s seen a thousand times, and it’s marvelously different. Aziraphale is touching him, they’re so close to each other. They’re allowed. They’re allowed to.

Aziraphale pulls the glass away from his lips, and swallows his sip of wine with an appreciative hum. “Yes,” he says, watching Crowley watching him.

Crowley’s forgotten what they were talking about, forgotten what Aziraphale’s agreeing to, but it somehow doesn’t matter. He puts the glass of wine down absently on a shelf (and it’s a testament to how focused Aziraphale is on Crowley’s proximity that he doesn’t object, an open glass so near his precious archive of human creations) and turns to regard Aziraphale. Not even a step away. Nothing between them, no props to act as excuses to be close. They are here because they want to be.

Lightheaded, Crowley breathes in, and they’re so close that the scent of the wine mixes with the scent of Aziraphale, sweet and softly earthy. He wants. He’s always wanted. 

After six thousand years of holding back, how do you begin?

Aziraphale, the bravest being Crowley has ever known, lifts his hand to skim the side of Crowley’s neck with warm fingertips, before letting his hand come to rest against the back of Crowley’s neck. 

Crowley closes his eyes, just for a moment, to focus on the feeling of it against his skin, hot and solid. Then he looks at Aziraphale, telling himself over and over that this is allowed, now. He raises a hand of his own, letting it hover near Aziraphale’s perfect round face, the soft curves of his cheeks. 

But it’s Aziraphale’s mouth, of course, that proves itself irresistible. 

Crowley’s thumb touches down at the corner of the angel’s mouth and traces over the soft ridge of Aziraphale’s cupid’s bow, trembling. Aziraphale brings his lips together and kisses Crowley’s fingertip. 

Crowley is going to discorporate just from that, the smallest possible kiss, the slightest motion of Aziraphale’s lips on his skin. And then Aziraphale’s mouth opens just slightly, kissing again, more open, with just a hint of a tug as the wet inner skin of his lips brushes against Crowley’s thumb. 

“Aziraphale,” Crowley breathes. He’s vibrating in place, sure he will cease to exist if he doesn’t taste Aziraphale’s lips. Sure he won’t fare much better if he does. 

“Hmm?” Aziraphale murmurs, eyes hazy with lust. 

“Can I?” Crowley asks, fingertips still drifting across Aziraphale’s lips, the fullness of the lower lip now. So soft.

“Oh,  _ please _ kiss me,” Aziraphale says, voice strained to breaking.

Crowley braces himself against the wall behind Aziraphale, because he hasn’t even kissed any part of Aziraphale yet and his knees already feel like they’re liable to give out. So many impossible things have already happened. He leans closer, until he can feel the heat of his angel’s breath. 

Breathes with him, for a moment. 

Drifts closer.

Brushes his lips against soft sweet lips he has been imagining for centuries. Oh, they are as soft as he imagined.

Aziraphale makes a desperate noise, no louder than a sigh, and presses into the kiss, a soft force that is everything, that has its own gravity, and makes Crowley feel as if he’s being encompassed, embraced, with just that small point of contact. 

Crowley is floating and spinning, there’s a bubble of joy rising in his chest he has absolutely no idea what to do with. Laugh, maybe, or cry. 

Instead he presses into those plush lips, moving against them, cupping Aziraphale’s jaw with the hand that isn’t busy holding him upright. And then, with just the tip of his tongue, he glides across that beautiful plump lower lip, and finally tastes.

Aziraphale. Sweet, sweet Aziraphale. Raspberries and sugar, champagne and passito, and skin and softness and angel.

He can’t keep in everything he’s feeling anymore, so he whimpers, just a breath of one, and pushes his tongue in past those perfect plump lips. 

Aziraphale’s tongue meets his, pressing and gliding, strong by design but gentle by choice, like the rest of him. Perfect, perfect. Crowley moans into the kiss, his whole body on fire with the new sensations, with the fact of them! Aziraphale’s lips, Aziraphale’s tongue! Sweeter than the wine, and more intoxicating. 

One of Aziraphale’s hands has slid under his jacket and is clutching the back of his shirt tightly, holding Crowley close to him. The other is in his hair, combing through the short strands at the back of his neck and pulling him in, changing the angle and making the kiss deeper. 

Crowley makes a breathy noise as Aziraphale’s tongue plunges into  _ his _ mouth, this time. The angel is giving the kiss all his focus, savoring Crowley’s mouth the way he would the most sublime meal he’d ever tasted - Crowley recognizes the soft moan, the satisfied little sighs! He’s never been close enough to feel the heat of them before. 

He wants to hear more. Oh! He wants to know if the noises Aziraphale makes get louder, with the proper motivation. 

He’s breathing hard when they break apart. “‘Ziraphale,” he gasps. He rests his forehead against the soft, fluffy white curls.

“Oh, my darling,” Aziraphale agrees, almost as breathless. “Oh, my Crowley.”

Crowley winds his arm around Aziraphale’s waist, desperate to keep him close, and they hold each other for a moment, holding on tight.

“I want you,” Crowley says, and then he hears himself, and yeah, that’s why he doesn’t drink dessert wine when he’s with Aziraphale anymore unless he wants to make a complete fool of himself.

“Good,” says Aziraphale, fondly and a bit breathlessly. “Then we’re on the same page.” And he leans in to put his mouth on Crowley’s neck and press wet kisses to his throat, and Crowley thinks dizzily that he would be a fool for Aziraphale any day, if it means getting that kind of reaction.

Then Aziraphale is pulling away from him, and Crowley feels every inch of distance as it increases again, thinks,  _ No, come back, what did I do? _ until he realizes he's being pulled by the hand through the door to the back room. 

There’s a sofa in the back room, and Crowley looks at it like he’s never seen it before and thinks it’s brilliant. It’s the same piece of furniture he’s spent the occasional night lounging over drunkenly for more than a decade, with the same beige floral pattern he’s mocked as endlessly as he mocks Aziraphale’s penchant for tartan, but it’s soft and wide and it’s Aziraphale’s.

He’s so busy contemplating it that Aziraphale pushes him down onto it impatiently, and sits on his lap, straddling him. "Is this all right?" the angel asks, "Only I don't think I have the focus at the moment to miracle us upstairs, and…"

Crowley shuts Aziraphale up by kissing him, and then he gets utterly lost in the kiss. He has a lap full of Aziraphale, and it's better than he could ever have imagined. But he wants more. He doesn't think he could ever get enough Aziraphale. 

The way Aziraphale's hands are trembling as he strokes every part of Crowley that's exposed, Crowley thinks the angel might feel the same about him. 

Crowley feels lost for a moment. He wants so many things, he doesn't know where to start. So he reaches for Aziraphale's hand, and he entwines their fingers, gripping hard. "Angel," he gasps. "Aziraphale. I want…"

Aziraphale grips his hand in return, looking a little wild himself. His hair is mussed, lips pink from kissing, and, even more shocking, his bowtie is askew. Crowley reaches with his free hand to untie it. Aziraphale tilts his head up to let him.

There's something about the sight of that, Aziraphale's throat stretched out, waiting for him, letting him disassemble the carefully put together, proper English facade that Aziraphale always puts on, that hits Crowley like a freight train. Aziraphale trusts Crowley with so much of himself.

Crowley is torn between being slow and careful, and tearing off the angel's clothes so he can touch every inch of soft, pink skin that much sooner. He can't bring himself to be anything but careful with Aziraphale. So he leans forward to kiss Aziraphale's throat as he unties the tie with care, and he tugs the thing open a centimeter at a time, each time kissing the sliver of skin that's revealed.

"Ah," breathes the angel. "Oh, Crowley."

Crowley can't seem to speak at the moment, he's overcome, the smooth stretch of Aziraphale's neck is under his lips and he can smell Aziraphale, taste him! As he pulls open Aziraphale's collar to the third button of his shirt, he places a kiss on the soft curve of his collarbone, chasing the soft motion of his lips with a skim of hard teeth.

Aziraphale moans, so sweetly. 

Crowley whines in response, and he abandons his attempt to undress the angel for the moment in favor of pressing his face to Aziraphale's neck and holding him, clutching him tightly, overcome with the need to be close.

"Oh," says Aziraphale, cupping the back of Crowley's neck with one hand and letting the other drift down the line of his spine. "I'm rather… rather desperately in love with you, you know." 

"I know," Crowley murmurs, only slightly muffled. "Feeling's mutual."

He doesn't want to leave this place, tucked up under Aziraphale's chin and being held so gently, but there's so much more he wants, too. He shifts one of his hands so that it can find its way under the bottom of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, and he traces little circles with his finger on the material of the angel’s shirt, just south of the small of his back. The same circles he’d traced on the tablecloth at the Ritz. Aziraphale makes a pleased little moan and shifts in Crowley’s grip, the hand that’s in Crowley’s hair drifting up and tugging, not enough to hurt but enough to communicate that Crowley ought to move his head so he could be kissed properly.

They’re pressed against each other so tightly that when he does move, there’s friction in a number of delightful places, and it makes his breath hitch and gives him all manner of ideas. Which are promptly pushed right out of his head by Aziraphale’s mouth on his, open and hungry, and Aziraphale’s fingers still gripping his hair.

Once Aziraphale has relented in his kisses enough that Crowley can maintain a thought for more than half a second, Crowley attacks the buttons of Aziraphale’s waistcoat, undoing them as carefully as he can stand to. He wants better access. The dratted things seem endless. But he can’t do anything to damage the waistcoat that Aziraphale has taken great pains to care for over the years. 

The last button undone, he slides his hands in between shirt and waistcoat, feeling the warmth and softness of the flesh underneath the shirt. He revels in it for a moment, fingers pressing into the angel’s soft back, and then pulls one hand back around between them to seek out Aziraphale’s nipple, assuming he’s bothered to manifest any.

When Aziraphale gasps and moans, and the flesh under Crowley’s searching fingers goes a bit firmer, Crowley knows he’s found his objective. He skims again and pinches, just lightly, feeling the skin perk up farther and Aziraphale shift against him, pushing into the touch. 

The angel’s fingertips scrabble through his hair, and his other hand has found its way inside Crowley’s jacket, skimming long strokes up and down the tender skin of his sides. Crowley shivers with it all, in the best of ways, and his breath goes shallow and loud in his own ears.

“Oh, darling,” says Aziraphale, watching him with wide, dark pupils. “There’s… just so much I want to do to you. Tell me what you'd like.”

“Everything,” Crowley breathes.

“We'll get there,” Aziraphale promises. He’s now skimming the lines of Crowley’s sides through his shirt with both hands, so deftly and perfectly. “But I'd like to make you come. You’re so lovely when I touch you, there’s so much pleasure there. Just, bursts of it, I can see them on your face. I want to see how much more I can give you.” 

“Don’t think there will ever be a limit,” Crowley says, and there’s something like a sob trying to escape his chest, like there’s too much emotion for him to hold, only it’s the kind he still wants more of, anyway. 

“There are so many ways to do this,” Aziraphale whispers against the skin of Crowley’s tattoo. “I’ve imagined most of them, with you. I want to see if I came close, at all. If this is any indication, my imagination fell very far short. Even every little time you touch me… oh!” Aziraphale whines slightly as Crowley’s fingers undo one of his cufflinks and trace the soft skin of his inner wrist up his arm, towards his elbow. “Yes, love, just like that. It’s better, more intense, than anything I could have dreamed.”

“‘S the same for me,” Crowley murmurs. He feels dizzy with it, every little touch.

“I thought it might be,” Aziraphale says, lips still brushing Crowley’s skin with every word, but moving down his jawline, now. “So perhaps we ought to start small. Could I touch you with my hands, or my mouth?” To punctuate the question, Aziraphale kisses Crowley’s lips again. Crowley’s response is hungry, opening his mouth to Aziraphale’s kiss, dragging him deeper. Drawing Aziraphale’s tongue into his mouth with teasing little touches of his own.

After a minute, Aziraphale pulls away, breathing hard. “Was that meant to be an answer?” he asks, teasing just a bit. 

Crowley whines, then gasps out, “Your mouth, Aziraphale, your mouth!”

Aziraphale makes a humming noise, long and low, and now he’s nuzzling at Crowley’s jaw, the soft skin under his ear. “Oh, I’d hoped you’d say that. I want to taste you…” The whispered words seem to trail off, as though Aziraphale couldn’t find the right words to encompass it all. “Oh, so much,” he continues, almost a moan.

“Please,” Crowley responds, and suddenly he can’t get out of his own clothes fast enough, shrugging off his jacket and flinging it aside, then starting on his belt, but he gets sidetracked by Aziraphale’s lovely pink cheeks as the angel watches him and has to kiss that flushed skin, once, twice, again. Meanwhile Aziraphale is rucking up Crowley’s shirt and his warm, strong hands are gliding over the planes of Crowley’s abdomen with a perfect, delicate touch. Crowley’s breath stutters. 

“Then again,” he says, “your  _ hands, _ angel. How can I be expected to choose?”

“We’ll get to everything,” Aziraphale promises, and seals it with a quick kiss, and, oh, yes, Aziraphale’s mouth! That was a good choice. He pulls the angel back in for further reminders, biting delicately at the incredible, soft lips.

Meanwhile Aziraphale’s hands are working away at the belt buckle Crowley abandoned half-undone, and soon it’s loose, and the angel’s face shows a familiar frustration as he struggles with the button of Crowley’s jeans in his haste. 

Crowley lies back against the arm of the couch to give him more space to work, and also preemptively takes care of his shoes with a snap, so they won’t get tangled up later. Aziraphale, just finished the button, promptly gets distracted from his task by the sight of Crowley’s abs, brought into view when Crowley stretched out along the length of the sofa and apparently irresistible and in need of tasting. Crowley shudders with pleasure as Aziraphale’s teeth drag across them slowly, then his tongue, his whole mouth really.

“‘Ziraphale,” he gasps. “Oh, angel.”

Aziraphale’s hands trace the skin of Crowley’s waist just above where his jeans sit, reaching back around and under, sweeping warm lines against his back before returning to the front, undoing the zipper and pulling the dark denim down his thighs. There’s nothing under them except what Crowley’s currently got manifested. 

“Oh,” Aziraphale says, taking it in with that dark, hungry gaze. “That’s lovely. Did you put that on for the occasion? Or have you had it since Ashtoreth?”

Crowley is already consumed with the idea of Aziraphale putting his mouth in what has apparently become a conversation piece, but he finds words, somehow. “To be honest, I've been defaulting to this for a while now.” He continues as Aziraphale carefully pulls the jeans the rest of the way off, stroking Crowley’s legs as they’re revealed. “Wanted to have something, but. Got annoying, pants being too tight every time I thought of you.”

Aziraphale’s eyes are bright with wonder. “Oh, really?” he says, and now he’s stroking up Crowley’s thighs, towards the cunt in question. “You think of me that often? Like that?”

“Constantly,” Crowley moans. “Please, oh,  _ please, _ Aziraphale.”

“Hm,” Aziraphale says, studying it, apparently contemplating his approach. Then he puts one hand on Crowley’s hip and drags it down to the thatch of dark red hair, his fingertips still trailing across Crowley’s belly. He presses down gently with the heel of his hand, moving in a tight little circle while keeping that pressure.

A noise escapes Crowley, and it’s loud and wordless. He’s already so worked up, just that gentle touch, still north of all the most delicate parts he’s got, is shocking.

“Oh,” Aziraphale says. “Yes, oh, Crowley. This is - ” He looks on, open-mouthed, wordlessly for a moment.

Crowley sobs with desire just on the edge of turning to frustration. 

Aziraphale takes one more breath and presses his whole face up into Crowley’s cunt, firm and alive, and Crowley yells, clutching the sofa cushions hard. “Yesss,” he hisses, just the far side of being a human noise. 

The angel hums with appreciation, and does a sort of nuzzling wiggle that makes sparks shoot up Crowley’s spine when his nose moves against Crowley’s clit. Then he plunges his tongue deep, exploring Crowley’s inner walls, and Crowley, in amongst all the writhing in delight, takes a moment to be grateful that neither one of them actually  _ needs _ to stop to breathe.

“Oh, angel,” Crowley gasps as Aziraphale grabs his thighs to deepen the angle, and his tongue hits a particularly fantastic spot. “Oh,  _ fuck.” _

Aziraphale makes sure to give that spot more attention, increasing the pressure a bit as he massages it with his tongue, and then just as Crowley is wondering how much of that he can take, that silky tongue draws back, licking and lapping at the softly throbbing lips of Crowley’s cunt. Crowley is still overwhelmed with pleasure, but it’s softer, for the moment, less acute.

“Angel, you,” he starts, but words are escaping him. So he just moans, and traces the line of Aziraphale’s ample ass with his foot. Oh, he  _ wants. _ Wants to make the angel gasp and yell, touch him in all the most intimate ways he possibly can. Which. Come to think of it. 

“Can you,” he starts, then loses his train of thought when Aziraphale hums against him.

Aziraphale withdraws enough to ask, “Yes, dearest?” which is a shame, not to have that mouth against him, but Crowley does want.

“Can I see your wings?” he begs.

The angel’s eyes widen, and then he shuts them for a moment, focusing, and with a soft swooshing noise, white, fluffy stretches of feathers are spread out above them. 

Oh, they’re so lovely. All of him is so lovely. 

And then, “Shall I use my hands, too?” he asks, re-settling himself between Crowley’s legs, and Crowley makes a soft, pleading noise. Aziraphale smiles and does that little grinding motion with the heel of his hand once more, making Crowley whine with pleasure, although it’s not quite as shocking this time. Then two of Aziraphale’s fingers trail down the wet length of his opening, before sliding deep inside. Farther back than his tongue could reach, massaging into him, sliding in and out, over more of that lovely sensitive stretch than his tongue was able to reach. Plunging deeper, dragging back, a perfect pressure that makes him ache with need. 

His back arches involuntarily, and he’s pressing into Aziraphale’s touch, trying to somehow get more of it.

“Oh, love,” Aziraphale says softly. “How absolutely gorgeous you are.” Above them, his feathers rustle gently and his wings curl in around them slightly, as if protecting the two of them and what they’re doing. His hands go about their tasks with diligence, continuing to utterly take Crowley apart.

Crowley’s making an unending string of noises now, “Oh”s and long, pleased moans and little gasps of encouragement. Then Aziraphale brings his mouth back down, tongue circling and then sucking gently on Crowley’s clit, and Crowley gasps, throwing his head back against the cushions with a long cry of soaring pleasure he can’t contain. 

_ Heaven hasn’t got a patch on this, _ Crowley thinks wildly, though he couldn’t put the words together well enough to speak them if he tried.

Aziraphale’s mouth works against him, soft and continuous, and inside him those fingers press against that perfect spot just that much more firmly, and oh! It gets  _ better, _ how! How could it have. He reaches for Aziraphale, hand landing in that soft white hair, and he runs his fingers over Aziraphale’s neck, wanting to pull him in even closer, against his clit even tighter. 

Aziraphale moans, and those humming vibrations seem to reach through the whole of him, and Crowley gives in to his impulse and pulls. Aziraphale presses in tighter at the prompt, sucking harder at Crowley’s swollen clit, which is pulsing with the most intense sensation Crowley has ever felt. 

His eyes roll back in his head, and he clenches his fingers in the cushions and Aziraphale’s hair, and he cries out at the feeling of those two fingers still pressing in and out, unrelenting, exquisite. 

“Oh,” he shouts, “oh, ohh,” as it all crests to an unbelievable, soaring height.

Aziraphale doesn’t stop, tongue still circling his clit in a motion that is hypnotic, as if he can stretch one moment into a tiny eternity simply on the merits of how good it feels. The motions of his fingers are just that much lighter now, just that much slower, and Crowley feels as if he is pulling pleasure from an infinite well that Crowley’s body could not possibly contain. 

In another moment the touch of his tongue turns tickly, flip-flopping between pleasure and a sort of giddy irritation, and Crowley whines in something that’s almost protest, but doesn’t quite manage to be. Aziraphale’s mouth stills and pulls away, but his fingers continue their strokes, long and slow and soft. 

“Oh, Aziraphale,” says Crowley, and the words are so heavy and large that they seem to take forever to say. “Love.”

Aziraphale hums in agreement, looking at Crowley with adoration as he finally pulls his fingers out of him. Crowley’s insides pulse with pleasure once more, softly, and he shivers with it, reaching for Aziraphale, who crawls up the length of the couch and settles against him, a perfect solid weight. 

“You are absolutely incredible,” the angel tells him, and kisses him.

“Yeah,” Crowley says, “think that’s my line.” He gives another little groan of residual pleasure and nuzzles his face into Aziraphale’s neck, wrapping his arms around the angel. 

“I meant what I said,” Aziraphale insists, kissing Crowley’s tattoo softly. 

Crowley hides his face and hums an undefined mumble into Aziraphale’s shoulder, a sound which tries to be grumpy but instead somehow comes out pleased and soft. He squirms a bit, rolling them towards the back of the sofa slightly, and strokes Aziraphale’s sides.

“So,” he asks, face finally emerging from its hiding spot, “what little treat have you got waiting for me, once I get the rest of these layers off you?” He plucks at Aziraphale’s waistcoat, hanging loose and somewhat askew.

“Well,” says Aziraphale, flushing slightly, “I haven't decided, actually.”

Crowley’s eyebrows climb precipitously. “So you’ve…” He blinks a couple of times. “Not got anything? You mean you haven't been enjoying this the way I have?”

“My love,” says Aziraphale, and his wings rustle in joyful emphasis, “I have been enjoying it immeasurably.”

“Well, can you put something on,” Crowley says, punctuating his words with kisses to the angel’s neck, “because I am absolutely raring to return the favor.” And he reaches down to squeeze Aziraphale’s ass.

“Hum,” Aziraphale says, “well.”

Crowley frowns at him, and in a slightly smaller voice says, “Do you not want me to?”

He’s going over the evening in his head, going over the whole of their time together, really, all six thousand years of it, rapidly recalculating.

“Oh, no!” Aziraphale says, emphatically and earnestly. “That’s not it at all. It’s certainly not a question of  _ not wanting.” _ He reaches for Crowley’s hand and twines their fingers together, then brings their joined hands up to his mouth so he can kiss Crowley’s knuckles. “I want you. Unequivocally. As much as you want me.” He purses his lips, and says more quietly, “Possibly more.”

Crowley takes a long breath, letting it out in relief. “Not possible,” he says lightly. Then he cups the angel’s cheek, searching his face. “What is it, then?” he asks softly. 

“Well, you see,” Aziraphale says, “I'm a little nervous, actually.”

“What part of it’s bothering you?” Crowley asks him. “You have… had one before, haven’t you? And used it? All this time… I mean, I haven’t been celibate.”

“Oh, yes,” Aziraphale says. “If I hadn’t, I might not be in such a pother over it.”

Crowley doesn’t understand, but he waits, thinking more of an explanation must be forthcoming.

“I feel so much love for you,” Aziraphale tells him. “So much desire. And I know, from experience, that putting on… all of that, would make what I'm feeling so much more intense.” He bites his lip, fidgeting one-handed with his pinky ring. He looks at Crowley. “And it's already. Rather a lot.”

“Oh, angel,” Crowley says, holding him tight. “It's all right. It's going to feel so good. I promise you. Better than you could even imagine, if it’s anything like  _ that _ just was.”

“What if I'm too much?” Aziraphale asks abruptly. “For you, I mean.”

Crowley sighs, and he touches his forehead to Aziraphale’s. “Angel,” he says. “Aziraphale. I want to see all of it. How much you want me. How crazy it drives you. Every bit of how it makes you lose control. Do you know how badly I want to see you lose control, even just a little bit?”

Aziraphale looks at him steadily. “Are you sure?” he asks. “What if you change your mind?”

“Love,” Crowley says, “I promise to tell you if you do anything I don't like. All right?”

“All right,” Aziraphale agrees, wriggling a bit in his arms, clearly thinking about what it’s going to be like.

“Now, have you got any ideas?” Crowley asks him.

“So many,” Aziraphale all but whispers.

“Would you like to put on a cock and fuck me?” Crowley asks in the same low, intense tone. “Fuck me so hard I can't see straight?”

Aziraphale whines, high and breathy, and nods, like he can’t find the simplest of words. 

“I’m all ready,” Crowley says, untangling himself from Aziraphale and pulling his rumpled shirt the rest of the way off before gesturing to his nakedness. “Should we get the rest of those clothes off you first, make sure you don’t ruin them?”

Apparently the layers are too much for Aziraphale’s dwindling patience, because he snaps once and he’s naked, his clothes folded neatly on a nearby chair, though the space between his legs is still inhumanly flat and smooth. 

“There you are,” Crowley says. “Whenever you’re ready, love.”

Aziraphale braces himself above Crowley on the couch, and gently, contemplatively, he traces a line down Crowley’s neck with a fingertip, down across his chest, over his heart, and lower, across the lines of his abdomen. “Would you turn over for me, darling?” he asks.

Crowley shivers deliciously at the idea. He stretches luxuriously and then repositions himself, on his knees, propped against the arm of the sofa.

Aziraphale sinks a finger into his cunt experimentally, and it flutters sweetly. Crowley groans quietly, an appreciative sound. 

“Ready?” Aziraphale asks.

“Perfectly,” Crowley replies. 

Aziraphale snaps, and immediately he lets out a moan, one that’s aching with want. 

“Fuck me,” Crowley challenges.

A hot, fat cockhead almost immediately slips into him, and Aziraphale gasps and howls, sinking in as far as he’ll go. It’s an easy slide, with Crowley already so open and wet, despite Aziraphale’s girth, and now Crowley is full of Aziraphale, so full, pushing on all his internal walls at once, bringing his nerves back to full attention and he sighs happily, leaning into the sensation immediately. 

“Is that all right?” Aziraphale asks, voice shaking with the effort of holding himself back, even now. 

“Yes,” Crowley tells him. “More than. Come on, take me, I’m yours, this is for you,  _ please _ \- ”

And that must do it, because the next thing Crowley knows he is being  _ fucked. _ Beautifully, comprehensively fucked. Aziraphale’s hands are gripping his hips and the ridges of his cockhead are dragging spectacularly across all the places that caught fire earlier from just the touch of his fingers, and the tip is reaching so, so deep.

“Oh, yes!” he cries. And his wings burst free, unbidden. Two whispery black shadows, shining in the lamplight.

Aziraphale murmurs, “Oh,  _ fuck,” _ and slams into him harder, his belly slapping smartly against Crowley’s ass and his cock producing sensations that make Crowley see stars.

Galaxies, even. 

“Fuck,  _ yes, _ angel,” he cries when he can summon the breath. “You want to go harder?”

Aziraphale makes a desperate, wrenching noise and fucks into him with so much force, the sofa cushion slides out of place underneath his knees. Crowley feels like his whole body is throbbing in time with that gloriously hot, fat cock as it pushes forcefully against that perfect, springy patch of flesh inside him, as it just barely brushes something further in, unbelievably deep. 

“Oh, ‘Ziraphale,” he moans, loud and low, “that’s  _ perfect, more, oh.” _

Aziraphale is shuddering with every thrust, breath coming loud and rough, and he fucks in hard, hitting all the right spots, until Crowley feels cracked open, absolutely wrenched apart, pouring out pleasure. He braces himself on one elbow and reaches for Aziraphale’s hand, now sitting low on his side, and puts his own over it, squeezing it as best he can. He just needs to _ touch _ his angel, right now, in some way. There’s so much, he wants to say thank you, but he can’t find breath for words.

Aziraphale spreads his fingers out on Crowley’s skin so Crowley’s fingers can slide in between them, brushing against the sides of Aziraphale’s. It’s something so small in comparison to everything else, but they both take shuddering breaths at that particular slide of skin, and Aziraphale moans so sweetly, so tenderly, and kisses Crowley’s back, right between his wings.

Crowley whines happily in response, too blissed out to do anything more. 

Then Aziraphale’s hands are around his chest, lifting him upright so that his wings are against Aziraphale’s chest, and it’s a gloriously soft contact in contrast to the hardness of Aziraphale’s cock, still inside him, still thrusting. The new angle is brilliant, delivering sharp, quick little bursts of pleasure. Crowley grabs at Aziraphale’s hand where it lays across his chest, supporting him, and slips his fingers in between Aziraphale’s again. Aziraphale lifts his palm a little, and soon Crowley’s hand is wrapped around Aziraphale’s tightly, a small part of the angel to hang on to to keep himself tethered in the perfect maelstrom of sensations. 

Aziraphale’s other hand moves next, from Crowley’s hip to his mound, massaging slightly clumsily at first, but then focusing in on Crowley’s clit with a beautiful sort of inelegant precision.

The angel’s breath is loud and harsh in his ear, and his thrusts are just starting to become erratic, and Crowley  _ loves him, _ loves the hard and the soft together, loves the sound of his pleasure and the force of his thrusts, and oh,  _ oh, _ he’s  _ bursting _ with it. 

The fingers on his clit move urgently, sharply, Aziraphale’s dick thrusts up into him with a suddenness he isn’t prepared for, and the fire of it all sweeps through him, consuming him, and he sobs as he reaches even higher heights of pleasure than the first time, feeling the burning tingle of it right down to his fingertips, twined with Aziraphale’s, right down to his toes. 

“Aziraphale,” he cries desperately. Loudly. Gasping for breath to say it again, the only name, the only word, that matters. “Aziraphale.” He shatters marvelously, a thousand bright pieces hanging in the air, waiting to fall.

They fall as gently as snow.

The pressure in his cunt continues as one hand returns to his hip, holding him steady as Aziraphale’s thrusts turn desperate, quick and uneven, as every breath the angel takes turns to a gulping gasp. Crowley is nearly completely limp now but the quick little pushes are like electric shocks, making him jerk and sigh with ecstasy. Then Aziraphale’s hands tighten on his hip and his chest, and the angel moans, loud and wild, grinding into Crowley with his pulsing, throbbing cock. Crowley feels himself flutter in response, and the way Aziraphale gasps, moaning again, low and appreciative.

Crowley hums sweetly and shifts a bit, limp against Aziraphale’s chest. Aziraphale slumps down against the back of the sofa, pulling Crowley on top of him this time, not separating them. So they sit there for a long, quiet, satisfied moment, Aziraphale’s soft cock still inside Crowley’s wet, used cunt. Their hands are still entwined. 

Crowley leans his head down to kiss Aziraphale’s thumb. 

“Was that all right?” Aziraphale asks, although he doesn’t sound worried about the answer. His voice is rough from use.

“That was absolutely fantastic,” Crowley answers, relaxed and happy, although his voice isn’t much better. “I’d say we should do it like that every time, except there are still about… let’s see… approximately ten zillion other things I wanna try with you.”

“Hmm,” Aziraphale hums, nosing at Crowley’s tattoo. “In that case, perhaps we should get started. We’ll come back ‘round to this, eventually.”

Crowley laughs easily, happily. He’s just basking in the expanses of soft, warm skin under him, against his back. “What’s next, then?”

“Well,” says Aziraphale, “we have most of an open bottle of passito still to drink, and you once said some very interesting things about licking dessert wine off of various parts of me.”

That sounds like a nice, leisurely way to spend a few hours, now that they’ve finally managed to break a tension that had been building up for six thousand years. Nothing but time, and sweet wine, and skin. 

“You have a point,” Crowley says, and snaps his fingers to summon the wine from wherever they left it. It had completely slipped his mind. 

  
  



End file.
